


Maids of Honor

by prosopopeya



Category: Las meninas
Genre: F/F, Las Meninas (painting by Velazquez) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 01:35:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosopopeya/pseuds/prosopopeya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They grow up together; it's an accident when they grow into each other, and one they would've liked to have avoided.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maids of Honor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foursweaterests](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foursweaterests/gifts).



> I saw the prompt and simply couldn't say no because it's one of my favorite paintings, too. My knowledge of the history comes straight from the wiki page, so I hope that all checks out okay. Happy Holidays!
> 
> To clarify the underage: they're 14. I kind of had to make them that young since she gets married when she's 15...

  
**Maids of Honor**   


Margarita doesn’t know what to think of the painter, because he can be funny and playful and also dark and severe, especially once he starts working. Margarita fidgets, and when the painter cuts his eyes to her again and asks her to please hold still—only there isn’t much “please” in his voice—she slips her hand into the princess’s and squeezes.

“Are we almost done?” Margarita whispers to her, so soft, so the painter won’t overhear.

“Nearly,” Augustina promises, even though she really has no idea, and she returns her hand to the cup.

  
**~**   


“But I want to play _now_ ,” Margarita whines, and doña Marcela huffs.

“You can play when you’ve got your hair done,” she returns, and she nods at doña Isabel to keep working.

“But then I won’t be able to play!” Margarita twists away from Isabel and runs across the room, her dress dragging behind her and slowing her down. Marcela’s eyes close, and she folds her hands to her chest; Augustina recognizes it as her “heavenly father, help me keep from yelling at the favorite daughter of the king” pose, and she reaches out a hand.

“Let me talk to her,” she says softly, and Marcela nods, relieved.

Augustina approaches the princess, kneeling in the far corner and singing to herself as she sways her doll in front of her. Augustina doesn’t know how it happened that she’s the only one who can coax Margarita out of these moods, but Marcela’s thanked her for it often enough. She crouches down beside her, and she reaches out, fingering her doll’s dress.

“She’s very pretty,” she murmurs, and Margarita nods.

“She’s my favorite. Papá says she looks like me.” To illustrate, she rearranges the doll’s hair, draping it over her shoulder.

“He’s right,” Augustina concedes, and she gingerly touches one of Margarita’s curls, falling over her shoulder. “If you let Isabel do your hair, you’ll look even more alike.”

Caught, Margarita looks up, her eyes knowing but soft, and she presses her lips together as she thinks. “Oh, alright,” she says with a sigh, and she stands after setting her doll back in its tiny chair. She holds her hand out to Augustina. “But only if you hold my hand. Will you sing to me?”

Augustina laughs and says of course, because that is the only answer available to her to give really, but it isn’t a chore; Margarita is never a chore.

  
**~**   


“What do you think of my hair?” Margarita asks, holding her hands up to display it.

“It’s lovely,” Augustina answers, smiling, and she reaches out her hands to the princess. “And your dress! It’s wonderful! A present from your father?”

Margarita’s face twitches, and she shakes her head. Augustina drops her hands as Margarita starts adjusting her skirts.

“From Uncle Leopold.”

She’s only ten—her marriage is years to come now, or so Augustina desperately hopes—and yet it weighs on her shoulders.

“Oh, Margarita,” she murmurs, and she gathers the princess into her arms. Her hair tickles her face where it brushes against her cheek, and she smells of powder and perfume. “At least,” she murmurs after a moment, setting her hand against the soft silk, “you’ll have me, too.”

“Yes,” Margarita says, with feeling, and she squeezes Augustina tightly. “Yes, you’ll come too.”

  
**~**   


They’re fourteen when she comes to Augustina with a secret.

“You’ll never guess!” she says before dissolving into a fit of giggles, her hand covering her mouth. They’re in the uncommon private of her room, without any attendants, without any servants, and Augustina lays her book aside, smiling.

“Is it about the prince?” she asks, and Margarita shakes her head, her nose wrinkling.

“No, no, not Carlos. About me! Guess.”

“But I thought I’d never be able to guess,” Augustina counters, and Margarita laughs, shaking her head again. She reaches over and takes Augustina’s hand, linking their fingers together.

“Oh, you’re silly. Fine, I’ll tell you.” She glances at the door and lowers her voice, leaning in close to Augustina. “I saw Isabel kissing one of the servant boys! They didn’t know I saw.”

She doesn’t draw away, and Augustina doesn’t pull away; she lifts an eyebrow, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“How is that a secret about you?” she asks, and Margarita straightens up, smiling.

“ _I_ saw it.”

Augustina laughs first, and then Margarita, and she squeezes Augustina’s hand as they lean together, their amusement sending them both into an uncontrollable fit until they’re both gasping, clutching their stomachs. They settle down, and Margarita leans back against the other side of the small couch, their fingers still linked.

“I suppose I’ll have to kiss Uncle Leopold,” she says quietly, and Augustina pulls their joined hands into her lap.

“I suppose so.” That she’ll have to do more than that hangs in the air between them, even if neither of them is entirely sure what that is.

“I don’t want him to be my first kiss,” Margarita announces in a hush.

“Margarita!” Augustina glances at the door and sits up straighter, even as she realizes that this is the secret Margarita had all along.

“Well, I don’t,” she returns darkly, but the spoiled pout is an act, and there’s real resentment there, real hurt. Because Augustina can’t deny her princess, especially when she pouts, she presses her lips together and thinks.

“Who would you like to kiss?” she whispers, and Margarita flushes, looking away.

“I don’t know. Carlos’s attendant is handsome,” she hedges, and they giggle again, quiet and hushed this time. “I can’t kiss a boy. That’s meant for my husband.”

Augustina nods, agreeing, and watches as Margarita slips her hand free to instead bend and flex each one of Augustina’s fingers in turn.

“I could kiss a girl,” she prompts, again in a hush, but with the kind of confidence that Augustina’s come to recognize as royal determination. She feels her own face flush, and she shrinks into her seat; her sensible protest is feeble, doesn’t even make it past her lips, because this is something she’s thought about, alone at night, and cast aside as affection, as something sisterly.

“Who would you kiss?” Augustina breathes instead, and Margarita laughs.

“You are silly,” she teases, and then she leans in, and her lips are soft against Augustina’s. Her hair brushes her shoulder, and the satin of her dress is soft against Augustina’s hands. They separate after what feels like too long, only as soon as Margarita leans away, it feels like not enough.

  
**~**   


Black doesn’t look right on her.

The funeral had been somber and stately, but Augustina only had eyes for Margarita, struggling in vein to keep her grief contained until they managed to slip away, into Margarita’s room. She shut the door vehemently behind her, and Augustina overheard Marcela say that at least Augustina’s with her; Augustina can calm her down, always has been able to.

Margarita falls into Augustina’s arms as soon as they’re past the door, and her tears are hot against Augustina’s shoulder. She rocks Margarita until her sobs calm down, fingers threading lightly over her back, and she hums softly under her breath, Margarita’s favorite song.

“There now,” she murmurs once Margarita pulls back, wiping at her face. “It’ll get better; you’ll see.” She offers Margarita a smile, but she turns away, folding in on herself.

“It’s not just Papá,” she says in a whisper. Margarita waits, patient, for her to continue. “It’s… I’ll marry soon.”

Leopold had been there, had embraced Margarita, smiled at her, squeezed her hand. Augustina had felt sick, even though she’d tried hard not to.

“I’ll be with you,” Augustina promises, for what feels like the hundredth, thousandth time, but it doesn’t bring the same consolation it used to. Margarita sniffs, bobs her head in agreement, and stands up, smoothing out her skirts.

“I’ll get ready for bed now,” she says softly, solemnly.

  
**~**   


“You look beautiful,” she whispers in Margarita’s ear, amidst the chaos of the attendants swirling around with flowers and pieces of satin and hair ribbons. The wedding is in a few hours, but everything already feels settled to Augustina.

Margarita smiles. It isn’t genuine, but Augustina doesn’t think anyone other than her would be able to tell.


End file.
